Tempus Omnia Revelat
by Tory
Summary: A captured Death Eater sees a family picture in Harry’s office and unveils a deep secret Voldemort has been keeping from Harry. Post Hogwarts.
1. Picture

_Tempus Omnia Revelat_

Summery: A captured Death Eater sees a family picture in Harry's office and unveils a deep secret Voldemort has been keeping from Harry. Post Hogwarts.

A/N: This is unbeta'd, I have, however, done my best to work out the wrinkles. I hope to find a beta soon, and when this happens, this chapter will of course be reloaded without this notice. I hope you enjoy!

Harry Potter did not like Death Eater's. He did not like them in battle, when their taunts created a strange, pounding anger in his chest, and that anger would propel him to lash out at them, his actions restrained only by his will and knowledge that, around him, others who fought with him felt the same. He did not like them standing quietly in a queue, when their ghostly, skull-like masks were so reminding of the mark which resided on their forearms... Nor when they formed a circle, which was when he felt most out of control, and his mind would falter as he broke away from his team and lunged at the death Eaters, feeling his blood pound within his chest as he longed to render unto them the same service they rendered to Harry's friends. No, he did not like Death Eater's at all. But he hated them most when they were in his office.

He was sitting back on one of the leather chairs, looking across the desk at a family picture of Harry, his wife, his baby daughter, and his son, which had been taken four years ago. The Death Eater feigned comfort, but with his hands bound behind his back with magic ropes, he surely could not feel such. When Harry opened the door, the Death Eater's face jolted around to stare at him with an unusual shade of paleness, and yet his brown, almost amber pupils were so intense and searching that even Harry found it disconcerting and looked way from them as he moved to sit behind his desk.

"Sorry for the interruption, Harry, but this one's on you. His paper works had to go through the recant route." said Ron. Ronald Weasley had changed much since their school days; he was now taller, had more freckles, but was much less lanky. Harry took a deep breath. By the word recant, of course, his meaning was clear: 'A dangerous Death Eater wants to renounce Voldemort and join the Order as a spy'. Ron would have already interrogated him, along with a second Auror member, and now it was Harry's job, as Head Auror, to slip his paper work through so that no one on Voldemort's side would notice it, so that Dumbledore could speak to the man...

"Yeah, alright. Take him to a holding cell; I'll get to him later." He replied half-heartedly, his emerald eyes already scanning through the paper work Ron had put on his desk. Ron nodded, seeming to hesitate an instant before, sadly, drawing his eyes away from Harry's, which seemed to be more haunted then they had four years ago.

"You need a break, mate. Go home early, Harry. This guy can wait until tomorrow...you look tired." "Tired" was a huge understatement, Ron thought as he looked at his best friend. Whenever Ron said tired to Harry, the word never just meant tired. It meant a lot of other things, such as being overworked, suicidal, on edge, stretched too thin, miserable... He rarely said the others outright, though. Harry didn't need him to; he understood perfectly what his best friend meant.

Ron yanked the prisoner up, drawing the mans eyes away from the picture again, and started to push him towards the door. Just as he was about to pull him out the door, those amber eyes locked onto Harry's again.

"I've seen that boy before..." he murmured softly. Ron paused, frowning in confusion, until his eyes traveled to where Geoffrey had directed his own: the Potter family picture. There was a thick, cloth-like, silence that descended upon the room, and it was held there for what seemed an eternity, until a sharp intake of breath from Harry ended it.

"I'm sure you have; your master killed him four years ago." Harry said in grating tones and put down the papers that were in his hands. Ron was in agony; he was torn between wanting the man to confess more and between wanting to gag him and throw him into the deepest canyon on earth, along with the painful past that he brought up, as far away from Harry as possible.

"He refused to scream..." Geoffrey continued, eyes still on the picture of the boy, hands clenching as if in pain, behind his back. His voice trembled as he continued, "He called Voldemort Tom... said that he would not give Tom what he sought. He said that he could not believe that Tom had ever broken one of his own promises... the promise that he would never be like his father, never to be like the children at the Orphanage...or the man there... he would not scream... even when the Dark Lord said he could lift the Crucio curse...that all he had to do was scream. He blacked out..." Harry had risen from his chair and Ron had closed the door, but neither dared move any further, lest they break this trance-like state that had enveloped the entire office. "Dubhán...I could never pronounce his name. I still can't..." He looked straight into Harry's eyes, and Harry realized, staring back into the golden eyes, that Geoffrey was a werewolf. "The Dark Lord never killed Dubhán...he told us he was his grandson..."

He was almost sure Harry Potter's heart stopped, had skipped at least three beats, unlike the red-head, Weasley, behind him, who's heart seemed to double its speed, pumping blood into every part except his face, which was as white as cream. He could smell the hope, a tangy, sweet, slightly bitter, smell, like a freshly cut nut, the instant, waning, aroma...he can also smell the weariness, the guards that have been built around these two hearts to prevent disappointment, the cautiousness war has instilled in them. He can almost hear their first thought 'he's a trap'. He waits in silence, knowing that speaking now would only be seen as persuasion, then again, so was silence.

"Prove it." There is an instant, as Mr. Potter's magic seeps out of him and Geoffrey can sense it, that he realizes, beyond the picture of the boy, beyond the similarities that the child shares with Potter, that he is the father...for Dubhán shares his magic...that deep, cooling magic which calms any around him and is cold, freezing, even in anger.

"Tell me how..." Harry has moved from behind his desk, Ron has steered him back to one of the chairs. "I do not know how except to tell you I know that boy... That I knew your smell when you entered the room...that it is very similar to Dubhán's."

"Show me!" His magic has one difference from Dubhán's; it does not stay cold, it boils and lashes out, like steam. "Tell me if he is hurt! Tell me what has happened to him!" Geoffrey's mouth twitched, he turned to Ron Weasley.

"Do you suppose I could speak to Mr. Potter _with_ Dumbledore present? The others were wrong, I think, Mr. Potter is _worse_ than the old man." He turned back to Harry, "He has a bigger temper anyway."

"It would be a good idea to call Dumbledore, Harry, and to speak to him in a _safe_ place." Harry reigned in his emotions enough to nod, though it was a grudging, stiff, gesture.

"Fine!" He grabbed a handful of Flew from a jar on his desk and threw it into the fireplace, located on the other side of the room; behind the chairs Geoffrey and Ron sat in, calling out for Dumbledore's office.

"Harry, what a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?" His face went somber when he took in Harry's features, the twinkle in his eyes dimming to small, shaded, candles. It was such an effortless change that Geoffrey wondered if the other face was a carefully erected mask, waiting to crack under the frequently bad news.

"I need to bring a prisoner through, Headmaster, we need to speak to him _privately._" Privately meant safely, and safely meant without the worry of prying ears. Geoffrey did not like this idea...he almost regretted mentioning the small boy in the picture...he was lost from what Mr. Potter thought still existed. He was not the child Harry must have thrown up into the air, tucked into bed, or held yards above the earth, atop a broom; no, that child was gone. Why had he set Potter up to seeing this?

Albus nodded, stepping aside to allow Mr. Potter - who had just pulled Geoffrey up from his chair, a second time that day, and was dragging him over to the fireplace -entrance into his office.

He had never seen the Headmaster of Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry's office before – he had not attended Hogwarts. He was drawn to the pictures, all snoozing, and to the objects that lined shelf after shelf, but he was imprisoned, captivated, stunned, and fascinated, by the flame colored bird perched near the stair well. Even as he was moved around to a chair he remained looking at the bird, black eyes against amber orbs. 

"Hello..." Harry slipped Albus the same file Ron had given him, "Ah, Geoffrey Goddard."

"We need to use the order's pensive, Headmaster." Dumbledore regarded Geoffrey for a long time, seeming to listen to Harry while examining the object of their consideration. Geoffrey did not like the gaze, but he did not look down. "Mr. Goddard has told us he knows something about...Devlin." The Headmaster exchanged Geoffrey for Harry now: staring at Harry just as intensely as he had Geoffrey.

"Of course." His words are all at once hollow and hopeful, Geoffrey cannot quiet sense what he feels...he does not like it when his instincts fail him. "Perhaps we should ask some questions of Mr. Goddard first?" Harry nodded grudgingly, and the Headmaster began the interrogation, one, which promised to be longer and harder then his last.

"How is it that you first came to know Dubhán?" Geoffrey bites back the impulse to ask what is meant by 'known' and settles for a short pause to consider his options.

"I first saw Dubhán when he was brought to camp by a pair of Death Eaters, I first spoke to him several days after he had recovered from his... initial ordeal...which was when I was assigned as his Guard." Dumbledore's eyes lit, he had not positioned Geoffrey in such a high position in his calculations, and neither, Geoffrey could tell, had Potter.

"He was enough importance to be assigned someone to keep him _safe?"_ This was Ronald Weasley, the ever-impulsive Auror.

"I was to protect him from outside dangers, from identification by spies, from himself...I did not say I was ever told to protect him from everything. Although, four years later, I have had no order that would place him in any harm." He worded himself carefully; crafting his answers so that they were not lies and yet hardly very truthful. 

"You mean Voldemort never told you to kill him, or for you to leave the room in order to let him do so." Geoffrey bowed his head. "How wonderful! That hardly tells us anything!" Ron, again, was not at all sly or sleek in his questioning. He was a Gryffindor down to the bone.

"You said from himself?" Mr. Potter was softer, more calculating, and harder, like Dumbledore, to place in an emotional position. His magical aurora had faded back to a calming cold; back to the one Geoffrey was so familiar with.

"So far as I could tell," He began, turning to raise a brow at Mr. Potter, "your son was not bitten by one of the Dark Lords werewolves." Harry clenched his jaw, but nodded.

"No, he was bitten when he was very young." Geoffrey mastered the urge to growl at Potter and _strongly_ express his disappointment. Rarely did a grown werewolf _want_ a _child_ to be bitten

"What one word would best describe Devlin?" Geoffrey also found himself stopping himself before he corrected Albus on the pronunciation of the name: Geoffrey was the wrong one.

"It is impossible to crush all of him into such a compact thing...calculating would come the closest though." Harry frowned, all at once remembering the times Devlin had been calculating but how they had been few and far between.

"Calculating as compared to who?" Geoffrey considered Potter's question carefully...knowing how far the boy would be judged upon the comparison.

"Rather like I have been told Dumbledore is; hard to place...brooding, calculating, careful..." Dumbledore did not seem pleased, he knew how old he was, and how no child should be compared so closely to him. He glanced at Harry, seeing wheels, pulleys and systems working behind shaded green eyes, eyes that mirrored his own thoughts.

"In power-" He did not even have to finish the question, Geoffrey was already answering. 

"He will out succeed all in this room – he will out succeed Voldemort." Geoffrey's gaze was so steady, his words so strong, that Dumbledore, that Harry and Ron, believed him. "He has the training and knowledge Harry Potter never did, and the upbringing that fosters his growth..." Harry gritted his teeth, clenching the sides of the chair as if it were an anchor to restrain him from attacking.

"An upbringing that fosters his growth..." His voice sounded as hard and brittle as ice. "How – how dare you say that! How dare you allege that someone who stole, _stole_, him from us could provide him a fostering environment!" Geoffrey met his anger with patience, his glare with an even, quelling stare. He did not look down...would no look away. Harry felt for an instant they where two children playing a game of Stare.

"I speak only of what I see...only of what I know. I speak not about the Dark Lord; I would not dare to you, but of myself and others of my group. You son has many friends, Mr. Potter, many who would die for him..." He unclenched the chair, but his eyes remained narrowed, and his back straight and tense; Geoffrey's words had instilled no clam.

"Which ever may be truth, I would like to make certain this is Devlin, I would like you to picture a recent memory with him in it, and then we will put it in the Pensive. Ronald, if you would?" Weasley moved over to his side, bringing his wand to touch Geoffrey's temple.

"I must ask - though this position makes me entirely aware of my mortality - what will you be doing with my information. What will be your plan of action toward Dubhán – I am as certain as any magic test you will perform that Dubhán is Mr. Potter's son – when you know his appearance and locations?"

"We will rescue him" Harry did not even seem to notice that the Headmaster had been going to speak, he seemed determined to set his opinion, and to have it understood it was the only one, before Dumbledore had the time to consider another.

The Headmaster's slightly disappointed gaze did not much effect him any longer – disappointment meant little to Harry these days, these years. It was the slight sympathetic, saddened, and understanding gaze of Geoffrey, which seemed to pull at him. "What is _rescue _to you, Mr. Potter, may be _kidnapping_ to Dubhán." 

"I think _now_ would be the ideal time to see these words in action. Focus on these truths you claim, Geoffrey, and let us see them played out."

_"You stare at me, Geoffrey, as if you are searching for something. Has it not occurred to you that I might answer your question?" Large green eyes, specked and swirling with gold peek over the rim of a book. Harry feels his throat close up, feels his legs stiffen, even as he wishes, and knows he cannot, to grab the child in this memory and never let him go. He watches with rapt attention, forcing, to no avail, but to weaken them, his emotions away._

_"Why do you never smile, young Master, why is it that you speak only when spoken to?" Ivory skin, lighter then Harry had ever had – more his mother – revealed itself as the book was marked and brought away. Harry reaches out to Ron, grabbing his friend to support his failing knees. The child is much more his mother than his father, delicate, charming features that are wispy and beautiful. He has inherited his father's hair, jet black with strands that are unwilling to lay still, though. _

_"To smile is to give something away, to give something away is to loose an advantage. An advantage can never be recovered. I do not smile, I rarely speak, because they give things, secrets, away, and something are better left unturned." He lifted the book again, and the memory spun around them, twirling them into another._

_There was a power, a control, which seemed to surround Devlin. It is not the aura of anger and power that surrounds Voldemort, or the withholding, almost shy, power that always surrounds Harry and rarely reveals its full self, but a guarded, shielding power that seemed to reflect off of the boy like a mirror, reflecting back an illusion, a calmness, a certainty, which could not truly be there. He was standing perfectly still, completely and utterly silent. He looks at only one thing, listens to only one thing – Voldemort. It is the only time Harry can remember ignoring his enemy, focusing on something else in the monsters presence._

_Voldemort takes a step toward the boy, and Harry must admire Devlin's control, his focus, his calculation, his strength, as he holds back a flinch, when Voldemort's hand reaches for his chin and lifts it up. "You look much better." The hand leaves the child, and Harry feels a superficial sense of relief._

_"Yes, sir." He speaks with a plain, flat, emotionless voice. "Thank you for the potions." Voldemort clenches his jaw, he seems for a moment angered by Devlin's words; infuriated by them. Harry cannot help but take a step forward._

_"You never thank someone who has created the problem because they fix it, do you understand Dubhán?" His voice is sharp, strict, and final. He looks into Devlin's eyes again, only loosening them when the child nods._

_"Yes, sir, I understand." Dubhán understood him, and he understood his position in this room. He knew he was lying; he still had the memory about him to consider himself a traitor, a spy that did not submit any information. That was what a traitor was, wasn't it? "Grandfather." But he couldn't break the weakness of instinctual survival...he did not want to die._

__

There was a moment of pause between this memory and the next. "You can't do any worse then that." He told Geoffrey, but Geoffrey merely lowered his eyes, an action more difficult and significant to him than Harry could ever realize.

_Harry was wrong: the next memory was worse, or at the very least, equal. Dubhán was at least seven in this – although Harry thought this one might be a very recent memory – and looked, for once, at peace. This did nothing to comfort Harry._

_"What is this?" Dumbledore had walked closer to the long table – most likely several pushed together – that seated nearly, if not more than - a hundred guests. All were Death Eaters, except for two figures at the head of the table, one could argue, and for one individual, Harry could hope, were not servants to the Dark Lord. Voldemort himself, and Dubhán, who lay, perhaps asleep, in the Dark Lord's lap. Lazily, speaking to one of his more important supporters, Voldemort combed his hair through the boy's hair as a parent or grandparent might._

_"It is the Dark Lord's birthday." Geoffrey replied. They are spun into blackness and then out of the pensive entirely._

"This brings up many more questions." Dumbledore whispers, seating himself heavily behind his desk and rubbing his temples with a weariness that pulls the curtains away from his twinkling eyes and cheerful face, revealing his true age. "I think we ought, Harry, wait a moment before asking them." Harry begins to shake his head, eager to finish the questions, move onto building a plan, and getting the boy out of there. "I do think Alexandra would be upset if she were not made aware of this, Harry."

Geoffrey is intrigued by Potter's quick realization, his slightly chagrined grin. "Yeah, I'd better tell her."

"Who is this _Alexandra_?" He can hear the voice repeat itself over and over in his mind, can hear the restless murmur of a child in the other ear. He knows the name. Dubhán had uttered it, screamed it, on his first transformation that Geoffrey had over seen, and had whimpered it, curled beside him, afterwards. He had called her something else, as well, and although Geoffrey knew her other name, he had to be certain, and so he asked again, "Is she his mother?" Potter turned to him, frowning in consideration.

Geoffrey can see the hope behind his eyes that Dubhán remembered, had told Geoffrey, of his mother, he can see the defeat that the child had not mentioned him, and he can see both of these thrown away as a crushed paper, before they reach his mouth.

"Yes, she is." Sharply, as if he could twirl his emotions away from him, Harry turned on his heel and grabbed for floopowder. "I'll just call her."

The name, which he called out, was whispered beneath his breath, so lightly the even Geoffrey, a werewolf, could not hear it. He had a sneaking sensation Potter had cast a silencing spell around himself.

"Harry!" The voice is smooth and calming, it is wispy like a fairies, and strong like a centaur. "What are you calling for?" Harry swallowed, leaning closer to the fire.

"Where's Ana, Alex?" Across the fire, Alexandra Potter's face falls, and she frowns. He asks it as if he is worried she will hear, as if he is about to tell her that a close friend has died. He says it like he did when he came back from the office that night and reported that Voldemort had sent Dubhán's body.

"She's with Hermione, I had a lot of work to do, and she was off..." She is holding back the worry; it is as evident to Harry as it is clear to Geoffrey, who cannot see her face. "Why?" She holds her breath, half fearing the answer.

"We have news on Dubhán. I need you to come to Dumbledore's office. We think he may-" Harry was cut off by Alexandra coming though the fire and falling onto him.


	2. Chapter 2

Years of flooing to Auror and Order assignments kept them both on their feet. 

"What news?" She managed to gasp out, holding onto the back of the chair Geoffrey was seated in for support without the slightest notice of its occupant. "What news, Harry?" She is firm and unrelenting, asking before Harry has even had the chance to form his answer. Geoffrey takes pity on Potter. 

"I would be the source, Misses Potter." She spins around to him, frowning down at him in the chair.

"And you are?" She asked; voice as steely and determined as it had been before, although this tone is washed of, and checked for, any weakness and desperation: Geoffrey had found which parent Dubhán got his talent of composing himself quickly from.

"Geoffrey Goddard. I'd shake your hand..." He leaned forward in his chair, showing the binding. "But they are not at my mercy. She seemed to sum him up in one look; deeming him as unimportant – for the moment – and turning from him in favor of Dumbledore. Geoffrey did not hear the conversation; he finds himself to preoccupied with one in his head, a distant, far away one that had not been listened to or thought of for many years. He has caught her sent, and he is suddenly aware of how much Dubhan _has_ remembered this woman.

"Did you hear me, or have they already given you to much truth serum?" Potter murmurs that they have given the man no such thing, but Alexandra's sole attention is on Geoffrey. He'd rather it went back to where it was before.

"My mind was else where." A glare, filled with contempt, presents itself on her features. Geoffrey is reminded of someone else, – who that expression makes her look remarkably like - but he will not speak this out loud, let alone in his head.

"Where would that be?" Her cream colored skirt and white blouse no longer suite her; she is an Auror again, and Order member, an investigator, a fighter: and her wrath has been turned to him.

"On distant memories; which reminded me how much you and your son share in appearances." He is lying, and he is speaking the truth: she does look remarkably like Dubhán, but that had not been where his mind was. The comment extracts its desired pause, its desired willingness to discard the topic, and its desired interest.

"They say the pensive images look like him, but Voldemort is a skilled wizard; he could easily create this look-alike boy. We have Dubhán's body..." She is using him to brainstorm, presenting a challenge without threat, without the issue of betrayal; this is what makes her the Auror she is.

"If he is skilled enough to create a living boy, could he not create a _dead _one? A mere body?" He is all at once aware of, and willing to, play her game. She inhales sharply – Geoffrey can see the limp body that Voldemort had sent them in her eyes, can imagine the tombstone they had buried it in, can picture her pain as she watched the casket float down into the ground, can sense her guilt as she realizes she might have _given up_ on her son, and yet, the hesitation at following Geoffrey's story and finding herself at the same place, once again – and releases it through her teeth.

"_I _have to see him," She says, leaning, facing him, against the Headmaster's desk with crossed arms. "I have to know if it is him." She reaches toward the pensive, but Geoffrey stops her.

"No, Mrs. Potter, I'd like to put a different one in for you." She begins to glare, to tell him he will not _censor_ her view, but then she looks him in the eyes, and changes her mind. She nods, and places her wand tip to his temple.

"I sometimes wonder if you read those books to listen to the words, or to allow yourself a peace of mind, with an excuse to be silent and oblivious." He is young; perhaps six, and his fists are clenched at his sides. He stares defiantly up at an older man, green eyes and jet-black hair that is beginning to grey, who is holding one of those thick books that would turn most children running. "Which is it, Dubhán?" The child growls lowly, jutting out his jaw in stubbornness.

"You can't take her from me!" He says softly, powerfully, stone cold and emotionless. Alexandra is witnessing the transition between Devlin and Dubhán: the between stages of childhood and survival. She cannot realize this now; looking upon this child she sees herself in and Harry. "She'll always be my mother."

The memory spun around her, and Alexandra found herself leaning on the desk, not for appearance, but for true support.

She closes her eyes in an attempt to collect her self. "Thank you." She says to Geoffrey, opening her eyes and smiling slightly at him, although it is far from an unshadowed one.

She is considerate and calculating, she thanks only when she sees reason, and speaks only when she desires. He nods.

"Do you know him well?" Beneath the truth to her words is a game she has no problem or difficulty playing; the same Geoffrey had played on her. She will string this concerned, pleased, parent persona along for as long as it works.

"I do. I am his Guard; I spend nearly all day, every day, with him.

Near a bed, dressed in greens and blues; a book shelf, filled from top to bottom with thick, dusty, tomes; a desk, laden with parchments, quills and ink, and a soft, warm, chair, a small figure paces, walking seven steps to the right and four to the left. His raven hair is disheveled, perhaps due to the fact that he woke up and discovered something missing, _someone_ missing. This person was not at the barracks - the sleeping quarters for Death Eaters - or in the room next to his that he often occupies when Dubhán might be sleeping alone in the magical tent that serves as his home.

His green eyes swerve to the clock over his desk, wanting nothing but to move the hands forward manually, and for that to change the _real_ time. Despite his frustration with it, his eyes linger on the time; it is the only thing on his mind.

'_I will be in an important meeting from evening until midnight; you are not to come to me between those times. Geoffrey will be watching you.'_ Those had been his Grandfather's parting words after lunch, rules he knew he could not break. Yet Geoffrey was not watching him...

This missing link might propel some children to think the rule had become null, but, even if this might be so, Dubhán was not the child to push his luck. He tried seating himself on his bed, but could not stay still for long. He could feel a headache building, knew this was dangerous, and yet kept ignoring it.

It was only an hour until his Grandfather came back...

"Where are you supposed to be, say, now?" Geoffrey is still rubbing at his sore wrists gingerly, as he considers the question.

"Watching your son..." He has already betrayed his master, he has already shattered promises: he has only one thing left to loose: Dubhán. He will loose this too, he can see, and yet he is becoming aware of why he must loose him.

"Would someone notice that you've been gone?" He snorts at Weasley's question, further impressed at his thickness.

"Yes!"

"Who? Of how much importance are they? Could you discredit them?" Geoffrey stares evenly into Alexandra's eyes: she is the silver-quick, problem solver of this group.

"No one, in the eyes of the Dark Lord, discredits Dubhán. I could, perhaps, with a very _good_, airtight, story, plead for his silence."

"Like you were captured by the other side?" Again, Geoffrey laughs at Ron.

"No, he'd be furious with you, he would be worried about my health: he would run to his Grandfather." Dumbledore strokes his beard slowly, pensively.

"Could you have been helping another Death Eater with a project..." Geoffrey, again, shakes his head.

"No. Excuse its bluntness, but my best bet would be to return while Dubhán is alone and convince him how sorry I am and that I cannot yet tell him where I was. We keep many secrets between us...we have an understanding."

"You have to get him out of there." Geoffrey sighed, and in his pause, which Potter considered hesitancy, Potter went for the jugular. "Or we'll send in our own fleet." Perhaps Potter was not as nearsighted as Geoffrey had imagined. He had seen Geoffrey's true fear, Geoffrey's protectiveness of Dubhán...perhaps he had seen it in others...perhaps other had explained to Potter that Dubhán was, in a way, his pup. Whether Potter knew that much about werewolves or not, Geoffrey found himself reacting as if he had, tipping his head up and exposing his neck slightly as he spoke. This went over Harry's head.

"Very well. Give me a week...I think the Dark Lord has an operation he is   
attending in the next few days." Potter looked disgusted that Dubhán would be in the environment for any more _seconds,_ but ended up nodding. "And then give me a twenty four hour period after that week to get him to you...I can't **_Apparate _**with him...it will notify the Dark Lord."

He was exhausted, still pacing, when a hand, at last, landed on his shoulder. Instantly, he knew it was not his Grandfather, but the person he had originally been pacing for. He turned around, entirely filled with the want to hug the man, but found himself beating his fits onto his chest.

"You left me here alone!" He said, aware that anger kept the more dangerous emotions at bay, and intending, for as long as he could, to keep that anger boiling. Geoffrey said nothing, did nothing to stop him; he lifted the child up and put him, standing, on his bed, so that they were eye to eye. Something in his eyes stopped the child, though just barely.

"I wont do anything to stop you Dubhán; you've every right to be angry with me." But his anger had slinked away already, and he could not net it again.

"Where were you?" He asks instead, fixing Geoffrey with a challenging stare. Geoffrey keeps those eyes, and then looks slowly away from them.

"I cannot tell you." Dubhán growls.

"Grandfather promised he would not send you anywhere tonight." Geoffrey wished he could let the child continue to shift the blame, but to do that would mean Voldemort was to be yelled at by the child, and that would not be to his or Dubhán's best interest.

"You're Grandfather did no such thing. I betrayed his orders to stay here with you." Dark and curious, Dubhán's eyes turn to him.

"But you cannot tell me?" Geoffrey shakes his head slowly, waiting for baited breath. "Are you asking me to keep a secret, Geoffrey?" His tone is light and friendly; it is the kind of voice, from anyone else, Geoffrey would have shaken his head at, because it would have lead to a trap. Dubhán played on this tone; if you could trust him enough to get past it, he knew he could trust you. Geoffrey nodded.

Moment's passed in silence... "I had a nightmare...will you stay with me?" Geoffrey nods again, fearful that the child has not given him any firm answer. Geoffrey seats himself on the edge of the child's bed and watches him quietly. One of his small hands falls onto Geoffrey's arm. "I won't tell him, Geoffrey." Geoffrey smiles softly and takes his hand, brushing the tiny fingers as the boy falls asleep. 


	3. Nightmare

_Note: all chapters at this time are not beta'd. I want to get a fair bit of the story done before I ask some one to look it over for plot slips and grammar mistakes. Thank you all for your reviews. I can't believe Wellingtonboots reviewed my story!_

Geoffrey had sat beside Dubhán until he fell asleep, and then moved slowly into the chair near the bed, settling down in wait of Voldemort. It was dark and silent, the perfect atmosphere for brooding about his potential treason. He was traitor; he had taken the step from consideration to action.

What would Dubhán think of him? He could picture the child yelling, screaming, fighting back tears he never allowed to fall, and then turning his eyes upon him. Those eyes where filled not with hate, not with fright, nor even desperation – they held disappointment. He had trusted, he _trusts_, Geoffrey. He would loose the only one who had never hurt him.

He wondered, in the child's mind, if he blamed his father, the great Harry Potter, for not coming and getting him, or his mother, the one who tucked him in and kissed his forehead, for forgetting him. He wondered if he remembered either of his parents beyond vague sensations. He wondered what Potter would think of a child who had only stepped on a broom in a trial practice of escape from _his_ men.

He wondered what both parents would think of a child who despised their very job. He wondered and pondered and brooded so hard and so long, that he didn't notice, half an hour later, the door to the room open and spread a sliver of light onto the bed, and onto his chair.

The Dark Lords face came into view, and with it his eyes, crimson red like coals that have succumbed to the flames, found Geoffrey in the chair. This was Voldemort, not Tom; Voldemort who only hid himself from one person, and he must have known that person was asleep. For a moment, as he stared at the child, his eyes softened and turned a murky green.

"I did not expect you to be in here, Geoffrey." Geoffrey rose slowly from the chair, walking into the hallway as the Dark Lord held the door open.

"Dubhán had a nightmare." Voldemort's eyes went again to the child, visible through the slightly ajar door, and then came back to Geoffrey.

"Did he speak about its contents with you?" Geoffrey shook his head, and, again, those crimson eyes traveled to the black hair and pale skin hidden under a downy blanket.

"I see..." He closed the door carefully. "You may go then." Geoffrey nodded  
quickly, swiftly walking down the short hallway and to the front door. He would sleep in the Barracks tonight; he had a sense that his Master wanted him nowhere _near_ that building. 

"Morning Geoffrey." This has been Dubhán's constant greeting every morning: it has only changed once in the four years Geoffrey has known Dubhán, and that was the curtailing of 'good'.

"Good morning, Dubhán." He watches the child button up his dress shirt and then come over to the bed to tie his shoes. "Why are you so dressed up today?" Dubhán glances at him, blinking twice.

"I thought we could talk Grandfather into letting me take a trip to the book store. I've run out of books." Geoffrey could not help but chuckle.

"You've finished reading them, you mean? You can't have run out of them," he sweeps his hand across the direction of the whole wall bookcase, "you have at least a hundred."

"Yes well, I've finished reading them all..._twice_." Geoffrey, trained from a young man to think strategically, could not help but notice that leaving the base by Dubhán's own wish, would be the best opportunity, while, at the same time, would mark him as clear as blood on his palms, as a traitor. Potter had made no promise to keep _him_ safe.

"Do you think he will allow it on such short notice?" He supposed he is also hesitant to finish this job so quickly, to loose Dubhán so soon.

"Nah, I expect it will be a few days, but I have to ask sometime." He finished tying the laces on his shoes and moved to putting on a clean-lined black robe, classic against his deep green - almost black itself, shirt – as being of Slytherin house. Dubhán was dressing for the occasion; he was manipulating Voldemort.

"I told your Grandfather you had a nightmare last night, when he asked me why I was sitting with you." Dubhán regarded him with a raised, knitted, brow. "Is that alright?"

"I'd thank you if I thought you'd helped me on purpose: more a chance he'll let us out." Geoffrey could only frown at the child.

"We never discuss your dreams, Dubhán, but we both know there painful; what does Voldemort think you are dreaming of?" Dubhán looks away, lifting to his feet and tucking his green-chain necklace under his shirts.

"Some secrets are better left unsaid." He strode to the door and laid his hand on it. "Are you coming, or shall I speak to him alone?" Geoffrey rose and left the room with Dubhán.

"Harry!" Harry Potter spun around the hallway, meeting Hermione Granger's gaze. He should have expected her to be early, should have known he would not even get the chance to step into his office, when he had asked her to come see him at work. "Harry, are you alright?" She was not asking the question as one friend might to another; she was concerned for him.

He blinked.

That had not been what he had expected her to ask first. "I am; why do you ask?" Her eyes glazed over, as if she were debating whether she should really answer, or if she should, could, go on as if she had never asked.

"You never speak about Dubhán unless it's his birthday; and then Ron is dragging you home drunk." Harry took her hand and they began to walk to his office. He did not know who to respond to that, he wanted to forget those nights, wanted to pretend, for certain, that they would never happen again. He wanted to imagine he wasn't worried Voldemort would somehow get the information that he knew about Devlin and decide to kill his son.

"Has Ron spoken to you?" She narrowed her eyes, now seated in front of his desk.

"No. I asked him to lunch and he said he couldn't leave the office, so I asked him to dinner, and he said he couldn't leave the office. What is going on, Harry?" So he told her, and even his somber concerns could not keep the smile from his face as he told her his son was alive.

"Did you see your Grandfather this morning?" Geoffrey asked, half for a conversation, half to gauge Voldemort's mood. Dubhán continued walking to what most Death Eaters had named the 'Intelligence Base', or just Base for short.

"He was gone when I woke up." Geoffrey tried to picture Dubhán walking down the hallway in his socks and pajamas and knocking on the Dark Lords door, but it aroused such a sense of surreality and confusion, that he tossed it aside.

"Do you know if you are allowed in the Base today?" Dubhán shrugged in response, pausing five feet from the tent to speak to the guards.

They let him in without hesitation, and, just before entering, Dubhán turned an ironic smile to him, as if to say: he would have told his guards to brandish their wands had I not been allowed. Geoffrey could see the irony in this, could sense the spark of sadness well up and then be squashed down.

"Dubhán." The dark lord had already risen from his seat at the head of the planning table. "What can I do for you?"

"I wished to ask if I would be allowed to visit Diagon Alley, I have read and reread all of my books..." Voldemort paused to consider this, while the other Death Eaters, went on working over a laid out map, working out the best tactic for some coming attack.

"You can, however, things will have to be arranged. Perhaps Wednesday." Dubhán smiled brightly, and, despite his company, the Dark Lords eyes murked over with green for a millisecond. "Now be gone with you, we both have other things to do." This was a demand, yes, but it was delivered fondly. Dubhán turned to leave, spinning on his heel, while Geoffrey dipped his head in a bow, before slowly turning his back on his master.

"Oh, and Geoffrey," He turned sharply around, fear, for a moment, lodging in his throat, "do make sure the boy gets his medication, I did not have time to give it to him this morning." Geoffrey nodded and left the room with his small charge. That was another thing he had to ponder on...

"So you want me to help?"

"I don't know what will happen... you're the best lawyer I know - even if you also teach annoying little brats - the only one I trust to keep Dubhán safe from the sometimes stupid courts."

She raised an eyebrow - Harry thought, looking at the expression, that she had been spending too much time with Ron – "Someday, both of your children will be in my History class, but yes, I will help you. You can always count on me, Harry." Harry sighed and fell back into his chair, as if she had lifted some great concern off of him.

"Now tell me about this boy..."

"I wouldn't know where to start, I hardly know his life from the time he was kidnapped..." She swallowed quickly - and rushed to assure him she would ask questions and he only had to answer – as she saw memory after deadly memory swarm in his eyes.

"In these memories, did he appear injured?" She must know if he is being held captive by force, and she dare not ask it so bluntly.

"No, but he was always in long sleeves..."

"Does he appear frightened?" She bites her lip as she asks this; of course he is frightened, yet she must ask it regardless.

"Yes...in at least one of the memories." Hermione can hear the despair well up in him.

"Does he remember...does he remember you or Alex?" This was the hardest question. Who was she to shove it in a parents face that their child may have _forgotten_ them, may have believed he was alone... 

"He remembers Alex, I'm- I'm not sure about myself" She closes her eyes for a moment, balling her fists and pushing her own emotions as far away she can.

"Does he appear to...is he..." Words failed her: she had no right to ask if Dubhán seemed to have gone to the dark side. How could she ask that of a child? How could she ask that of this child? How could she look Harry in the face and ask him to answer her?

But Harry can see the question in her face.

"I don't know. He calls him Grandfather... he seemed passive sometimes and angered others. I can't truly answer that until we get him away from danger."

"Voldemort _knows?_"


	4. Trap

A/N: I know reviews aren't everything, but I really would appreciate some feedback... I going to be looking for a Beta reader soon...now I just have to find out how you do that.

I home you enjoy the story. For those who might be disappointed about so little interaction between Voldemort and Dubhán, don't be, this story will consist of both future meets and flash backs. Bye, have fun!

**Everything went white**. It was like looking into a blizzard: images infused with dusty snow that obstructed him from seeing even his hands clearly. Then Harry realized it was his glasses... he shook them clear.

"Ana," He took the six year olds hands, "You have to stir the batter _slowly._" He showed her, hands over hers, until he was confident he was not going to be looking through floured glasses, confident both because she seemed to understand, and he had mixed the flour in.

"Do you think Mommy will like our cake?" Her red hair was pulled back in a rather pitiful braid, seeing that it was Harry who had preformed the task, and her small face was flecked not only with freckles, but now also with flour. He held in a laugh.

"If we don't burn it." He told her truthfully, brushing off his jumper and spraying the room, again, with flour. "And we clean up...she'll be _really_ mad if we don't clean up." Ana had stopped stirring, and now stood on the stool with her arms crossed; a stance she had acquired from her mother.

"Like last time Daddy?" Her brow was raised: she was teasing him. "When you forgot to set the timer and the cake came out _black_?" He grinned, grabbing the timer from the counter and waving it playfully at her.

"I've got the timer now! It will come out _white_ this time, I _promise_." She giggled, and handed him the bowl.

"You pour it into the pan, 'Kay? I always spill it." He grumbled at her, for which she grinned back, and took out the round backing pan.

For a strange hour or two, he thought nothing about Dubhán. In later reflection, this felt both relaxing and worrying. He will not forget or give up on his son again.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

**Geoffrey feels as if he has accomplished the impossible:** he is in two places at once; split between a person who is smiling and carrying on a conversation with Dubhán as he brings book after book to him and explains his interest in it, and the person who knows it is only a matter of hours, minutes and seconds before he will never see that smile again, before he turns a child's life apart in such an upside down manner that he fears Dubhán will never be able to see straight again. 

Geoffrey claws desperately at the ground, at his last remaining rope, as he moves over to the register to purchase the books, Dubhán beaming at his side as the shopkeeper rings up the items, is paid, and then shrinks the books into a neat, small, box that he hands to Dubhán.

"Are all of those yours, son, or do you have an older sibling going to school?" Dubhán shakes his head.

"All mine sir. I like to read." The man nodded knowingly.

"I can see that. Well you take good care of yourself and the books."

"Of course, sir. Thank you sir." Dubhán said, tucking the package carefully into his pocket, and running over to meet Geoffrey at the door.

Geoffrey cannot help but cave into he child's wish for ice cream, not today. He indulges the child with double servings and they talk pleasantly, carefree, about the books he has purchased.

"I can't wait to read that one on the Philosophy of Magic. Actually, I got a few on that topic, because it's supposed to vary, and I want to get an idea of it from all angles. Where do you think magic originated from?" Geoffrey shakes his head in amusement.

"I wouldn't even attempt to answer that question, Dubhán. You will have to ask your grandfather." Dubhán looked disappointed from a second, but then brightened, moving on to his next subjects of books: potions. 

­­­­­­­­­­­­­

**Certain tenseness always accompanies the act of Apparating**; the muscles tighten as if they can hold each other together by sheer strength, and hands grasp for anything anchor them. This was not, however, the kind of tension Geoffrey felt Dubhán experience, still held against him, as he opened his eyes not to the camp, but to an office.

"Geoffrey, I think we made a wrong turn, better get out of here before someone notices." His voice is forcefully light, yet he speaks what he believes is truth.

"Hold on Dubhán." Dubhán relaxes for a moment, convinced, perhaps mislead, that Geoffrey is regaining the energy to transport them again.

It is only a matter of moments before the door opens, of which Dubhán cannot see, and Geoffrey holds him still, revealing Harry Potter, whose attention is so raptly focused on a report that he jumps into the air, curses, and then drops his papers across his feet when he looks up to find his seat. Habit leads him to cast silencing charms, and locking spells across all of his walls, and ceilings.

"Hello." Geoffrey said. Dubhán shrinks back into Geoffrey, even though Geoffrey seems to know the man.

"Geoffrey," he whispers urgently, "get us out of here. He's an _Auror!_"

"Is that him?" The man whispers hoarsely, taking a shaking step forward, hand held out like a blind mans cane. 

"This is Dubhán." Geoffrey answers careful, taking a step away from Potter as he feels the small body shake against him. He gives Potter a significant glance, and then Geoffrey moves so that he has Dubhán's shoulders in his grasp and is looking in his eyes. "I cannot hurt you, Dubhán, nature would not allow me to. I can only do what I sense is best for you: best for your survival and healthiness. I..."

"Take me home Geoffrey." His tone is cold and demanding, a perfect replication of Voldemort's. Geoffrey shakes his head.

"I can't Dubhán." He says, moving his hands awkwardly across the small, tense, shoulders in a familiar motion to calm the boy. Today, it helps none. "I can't." Those eyes turn cold now, surging with anger.

"Take me home Geoffrey." This is an order. Voldemort would have followed with a painful dose of Crucio, but even had Dubhán the wand, and knowledge about how, to perform such a spell, he would not have cast it. He detested the spell.

"Do you remember, Dubhán, when you asked me how to make Voldemort happy?" Dubhán shakes his head, even he is subject to fear, and despite Geoffrey's position as traitor; he is the only one familiar and slightly secure, in this room.

"I told you that: you do what you are told. But always pretending, Dubhán, always wondering about why he is kind to you, always... looking for traps behind your back and worry of which side you are obligated to be loyal to, is not healthy. I cannot promise my solution is either; but I could no longer leave you with him. I cannot see a child in you, Dubhán, and every person must be a child first. It is not right for him to take that away from you." Dubhán's eyes brim with tears; tears he will not allow to fall.

"Take me home Geoffrey, and I promise, I won't tell him. Everyone makes mistakes... just take me home."

"I have Dubhán."

"No! NO, take me back to grandfather, Geoffrey! You can't do this too me! You can't! You're supposed to take _care_ of me! I don't like this! I don't _feel _good here! You can't do this! You can't! You can't! You can't! You can't!" Geoffrey did nothing to stop the accusations, merely waits for the small child to wane into silence.

"Oh, Dubhán, you are confusing tactics. I love you. I, all of Voldemort's werewolves, adopted you into our pack, but I am not your creator. I am a volunteer to that position. Those words hurt me, they hurt me beyond any pain I can ever feel, but...they do not wake that part which you seek, Dubhán." He lifted one of the child's hands to his breast. "You are my pup _here_, not by blood. They are the same in every aspect, except the one you wish to exploit." Dubhán growls lowly, hunching his shoulders slightly, lifting his child to stare into Geoffrey's eyes. Dubhán had known, below his fear and desperation, that the tactic would not work. Geoffrey had not bitten him.

Dubhán knows many inappropriate words, a child that has lived in his surrounds cannot help but hear them, and so long as he does not say them, his Grandfather hardly cares that he _knows _them. The word he has chosen to say, however, is not inappropriate, is not one of the worst words Dubhán knows; that is not why he has chosen to say it, quite to the contrary, he has chosen to use _this_ word because of its appropriate_ness_ because of the impact he knows it will have: _"Traitor!"  
_

Geoffrey finally looks away, finally slumps into one of the chairs; finally lowers himself of his high rank and claims Dubhán the winner. Dubhán does not care, he does not want to win anything; he wants to go home, to feel _safe_.

"I've brought him here, what else to do you want of me, Potter?" Dubhán does not read papers or recent History books, he does not know what Harry Potter looks like, does not want to remember that he did knew the man once. Geoffrey's words mean volumes to him, and he backs against one of the office walls.

"You're going to kill me!" He is aware of his position in the room, of its susceptibility to traps, his also aware of its advantage. He pushes his palms slightly against the wall behind him, unnoticeable to the people in front of him, and prepares for attack. Geoffrey is his only disadvantage: Geoffrey who has watched and assisted in his training, Geoffrey who can warn Potter.

"I want you to tell him I'm not going to kill him!" Potter tone and hitch tells Dubhán that he is genuinely hurt by Dubhán's statement, yet Dubhán feels no need to allow that to effect his opinion, even though he knows there are few who can fool his instincts.

"He won't believe me." Geoffrey covered his eyes with a hand, slumping in the chair and looking pale and sickly. Potter glares at Geoffrey, who takes his hand away, and, lifting his eyebrows and looking toward Dubhán again, says: "He won't kill you." His words are bland and untasteful, he says them because he has been asked to; he knows Dubhán hardly considers them. He is a traitor. A moment passes between Geoffrey's words and all other silence. Dubhán tries to reign in his thundering thoughts.

"I'm eight, Mr. Potter, I'm an underage wizard. Do you agree?" Potter is taken aback by Dubhán's calm appearance and straight-backed posture, such a change from the clear fear he had seen before. Geoffrey is weary of it. Potter nods, and Geoffrey groans inwardly, entirely aware that Potter is walking into a trap. When Dubhán is coldly calm, stiffly polite and examining, he is to be feared. He is not to be answered. He is tiptoeing around you and manipulating you. He is calculating your next step, finding your weaknesses.

"Do you want to ask me any questions about who I am, how I feel, and where I've been?" Potter nods again, smiling, thinking the child has calmed down enough to be reasonable. Dubhán is being reasonable, just not the way Potter wants him to be.

"Are you a real Auror?" He tilts his head, comparable to a muggle child asking a uniformed police officer: 'are you a real policeman?' and Potter nods his head like a muggle officer asked the question by a passing five year old.

"Yeah!" Dubhán holds back a scowl.

"You've just broken the law." Dubhán says coldly.


	5. Hitting the Mark

A/N: I want to make sure I thank fudgebaby for being this stories first reviewer, and second one. Now: I'm still in search of a Beta, hopefully I'll find one before my next chapter, but no promises. Second, and far more important than my search for a beta: I want to give Cataclysmic many, many thanks for both reviewing _and_ putting me in her C2's _spotlight_. You're _Brilliant, _Cataclysmic!

_You've just broken the law.  
_

The echo of the statement twists cruelly around him. He had not expected or seen this trap, yet it hurts him more that the child had set it, then his training has failed him. What had he expected of the child? "_What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter, may be kidnapping to Dubhán"_ _"You're going to kill me!"_ He tried to rid his mind of the voices, voices that itched and clawed like those of Voldemort

Silence, a fist closing around his throat, engulfed the office; and an emptiness that has always been present in Harry, since the first time he can remember his Aunt calling him a freak, creeps under his skin. He knows each curve, each sinking hole, of this emptiness, yet he is always surprised how it grows and contracts, how each time he confronts it, it has changed.

"Devlin..." His throat is hot and constricted.

"My name is Dubhán." Harry cannot draw his gaze away from those cold, flaming, eyes; he forces his eyes shut to avoid this weakness.

"Dubhán," It hurts so much to say that name, to surrender the other one, the one that represented the child he had known. "I am your father, I have the right to question you."

"Where is the proof? Where are the files?" He narrows his eyes; eyes that are haunted by the truth he knows and the determination to turn away from it, to crush it into ash and blow it away with the wind. Yet, fear, instead of sending him into a panic, heightens and focuses his senses. 

"What exactly to you wish to accomplish by kidnapping a child, Mr. Potter? I will not betray him, I will not betray Tom..." He pauses here; for the effect he knows silence builds. Dubhán understand what he must do now. He lifts his head, like a lion showing its size, straightens his back and captures Harry Potter's green gaze in his own, like a huge snake preparing to strike. "Just as I did not betray you."

"Let me help you with that." His voice is smooth as the marble floors the woman has tripped on and her papers had fallen down on. Still on the ground, she flicks her wrist slightly and the papers, even the ones in his hands, fly to her - neatly stacked, just as they had been before. She lifts herself up, ignoring the hand he has offered her.

"I'm fine, thank you very much." Undeterred, he walks beside her as she makes her way down the office.

"I was looking to speak to Mr. Potter, would you know where he is?" She pauses for a moment, frowning as if running some kind of information through her mind, and then turns to glare at him.

"I do run my husband's schedule, Mr. Malfoy."

"Nor was I implying such. Would you know if he where in the office today, though, or is he stuck in traffic?" Her head snaps to his grey eyes, and once again, a scowl, deep and sharp, molds itself onto her face.

"He is out of the office today, I believe. I'm headed there right now, to drop off a case file, if I am mistaken I will send a paper to your office." He bowed his head slightly, a charming, Malfoy smile ever present on his face.

"Thank you, Mrs. Potter. Mr. Potter does seem to have a lot of big case files in his office, doesn't he?" This was not meant to be answered: it is a question designed for pleasant parting, and that is just what Draco Malfoy does: he turned gracefully from her and went down another hallway in the Ministry building.

Alexandra quickened her steps...

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Many can call Voldemort an irate man, some could, _have_, gone as far as to say he has reached a level of infuriation that cannot be surpassed, but looking back, these many people must reconsider their earlier calculations of his anger. Whatever he might have been called then, none can think of a stronger word that would describe what he has become now.

_He is irate a hundred times over_, one slightly intelligent Death Eater determined. One might, however, think this would still be a weak label for the newly recruited Death Eater that the previous Death Eater was dragging out of the Base tent; had he been able to think at all after the dose of spells Voldemort had given him.

"Now that this table has one less idiot at it, maybe the rest of you can manage to understand my simple instructions: Find my Grandson, and do not find him dead." Voldemort demanded. It was quite clear to all at the table that he thought that the rest remaining were idiots as well and would have liked to nearly kill them as well. They would be killed, most realized, if they arrived back with no child or a dead child. Despite their doomed fate, they nodded and lifted themselves from the table, at least half of them swearing to kill _themselves_ before returning empty handed.

"No, but the ministry is considering the option of changing that form of the law to add more leeway-" Hermione paused, catching site of red hair, which, once its length registered, meant Alexandra. She excused herself from the conversation and went over to her friend, who was leaning on a wall nearby with all the appearance of someone waiting patiently to talk to friend; Alexandra's appearance often lied.

"We need to talk." She said softly.

"Okay." Alexandra and she often had Order _things_ or Ministry _things_ to discuss; her asking to speak with her triggered no alarms. Then Alexandra took hold of her arm and lead her to an empty hallway space, and, finally, not only to trigger the alarms, but put them on full volume, she cast every silencing charm in existence, expect for the one any semi-intelligent wizard knew had the side effect of deafness for those who tried to get past it.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Nagini's head lifted off the floor, tongue flickering in and out like some kind of laser. IN reaction to this, Voldemort lowly puts down the book he has been regarding, and turns to his snake, listening to her soft whispers. Turning to the door, smiling: "Draco, do come in."

There is no hesitancy in the hand that turns the knob, no pause in the footing; each is done in one fluid movement. Entering, he is as polished and primed as always, as calm in appearance and as willing to bow lowly to his master as any other day.

"He is with Potter, My Lord." He is intelligent, calculating; he needn't be told Voldemort's mood will not tolerate small talk.

"Do I have a traitor on my hands?" He asked, motioning for Malfoy to rise from his bow; he is a master of reading others; he wants to see Malfoy's eyes when he answers this question.

"I do not believe so, My Lord, but my calculations are nothing compared to yours." He is meticulously mannered in the way of speak to those below and, more so, above himself.

"I want them both alive." Voldemort holds up the book he had been reading for Draco to take. Draco does not stare at in confusion, he keeps his gaze with Voldemort, and waits for the explanation he knows will come. "When you first find him, I doubt you will be able to get him out. He was reading this book, make sure he gets it, and make sure you only fail to retrieve him that once."

"Yes, My Lord." He is alert, cunning; he never turns his back on Voldemort: he bows lowly and walks to the door. "I will do as you ask." He does not say he will do his best, or he will try; such weak assurances are useless, they're only reward punishment: he tells his Master that it _will_ be done.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

He has hit the mark; he can sense it, but it has come at an expense: he must remember the memory he refers to, a night in his life he would rather pretend had never happened. "You cannot do worse." He says, paying the bill for this comment too; trying hard to cling to the anger and fear that keeps his legs from failing him.

Potter is not sure what to do, Dubhán can smell the uncertainty, yet he finds the courage - Dubhán will call it what it is - to take a step forward, toward him. It is foolhardy, however, when he tries to reach a hand out to Dubhán.

"Its not a very well known fact, Mr. Potter, but as an Auror you should be aware of it: werewolves maintain their poison in human form." Harry closes his eyes, yet his hand remains were it was. Dubhán calls this bravery; Gryffindor style.

"I'm going to trust that you wont bite me, Dubhán." He inched forward again, like he was approaching a wild, wounded, animal.

"Didn't they teach you anything in training, Potter? You shouldn't trust anyone!" Dubhán threw his weight onto his palms, which had not moved from their position against the wall, and then quickly into his legs, kicking out at Potter before he knew what was happening.

It was only Potter's luck that his office door opened to admit two witches, one of which brandished a wand and spelled Dubhán frozen in the air, before she flicked her wrist and he was floated down to a chair, where he still could not move.

"What is going on here, Harry?" She gave Dubhán an appraising glance, as if she were looking for injuries, and when she found none, went over to Harry, who was bent over in pain.

"Damn!" He leaned his bent back against the wall, arms wrapped around his stomach. Geoffrey did not move from his position at a chair, and Hermione only shut the door, standing stone-like in front of its closed surface.

"I didn't hit you _that_ hard." Dubhán mocked from his position, though he could not see Potter, and his mind was more on the witch at the door and the one behind him.

"I don't want to know what he thinks _is_ hard!" Potter coughed out, allowing Alexandra to cast a pain-relieving spell on him.

"You must keep in mind, Mr. Potter, that Dubhán is both a werewolf, which allows him to take more brute injuries and heal from them quickly, and is very talented at suppressing discomfort." Geoffrey said, looking at the boy in disappointment.

"I was referring to his tantrum." Dubhán defended.


	6. Respect for Traitors

A/N: I'll be going to camp in two weeks so this may be one of the last chapters I post until August, just to warn you. I'll try to finish another chapter, and leave everyone at a good spot, though. I know this chapter had something I needed to fix, but I've lost it now and really don't have the time to search for it, what with packing and what not.

I'd really love at least one review for each chapter...

ON WITH THE STORY:

"Draco, do come in." 

There is no hesitancy in the hand that turns the knob, no pause in the footing; each is done in one fluid movement. Entering, he is as polished and primed as always, as calm in appearance and as willing to bow lowly to his master as any other day.

"He is with Potter, My Lord." He is intelligent, calculating; he needn't be told Voldemort's mood will not tolerate small talk.

"Do I have a traitor on my hands?" He asked, motioning for Malfoy to rise from his bow. He is a master of reading others; he wants to see Malfoy's eyes.

"I do not believe so, My Lord, but my calculations are nothing compared to yours." He is meticulously mannered in the way of speak to those below and, more so, above himself.

"I want them both alive." Voldemort holds up the book he had been reading for Draco to take. Draco does not stare at in confusion, he keeps his gaze with Voldemort, and waits for the explanation he knows will come. "When you first find him, I doubt you will be able to get him out. He was reading this book, make sure he gets it, and make sure you only fail to retrieve him that once."

"Yes, My Lord." He is alert, cunning; he never turns his back on Voldemort: he bows lowly and walks to the door. "I will do as you ask." He does not say he will do his best, or he will try; such weak assurances are useless, there only reward is punishment: he tells his Master that it _will_ be done.

­­­­­­­­­

Desires are worthless causes...in the end, they don't do anything helpful; in the end, they make things worse. To desire to do something is to be crestfallen when that desire does not happen...Dubhán cannot risk such weaknesses; he learned this when he had wished to go home the last time, when, at the age of four, he had wanted his mother. It was only after he had thrown that desire away, labeled it impossible, and left it to the wind, that he had been able to think about survival.

It was harder when the woman was in front of him.

When she looked up from the letter she had finished to Dumbledore and the one she was beginning for another 'friend', and gave him a secret smile.

It was hard when she asked if he was all right.

It was hardest when she told him everything would be all right.

"Nothing is ever alright." Dubhán whispers to her, and for a moment her secret cheer falters, and he can throw the desire away.

"Sometimes things change." She says, finishing the letters and walking behind him, to where he cannot turn, for he is still frozen, and sending the envelopes through the fire.

On her way back, she sends a slight glance at him, but then deems it better not to speak to him again, or flash him another secret smile, and walks over to Potter, and the brown haired witch who are talking together. Perhaps she thinks he does not want it; he will not ask for it.

Desires are best ignored; otherwise, you're only living for them.

"You have him with you?" Dubhán tips his head, he knows this is Dumbledore, Alexandra, Potter and who he had learned is Hermione, have already called him such, yet Dubhán has never heard the old man's voice before, and he is interested in it.

"Yes, Albus, he's with us, and seems in good health." Potter was not joking, yet he held back any mention of Dubhán kicking him – Dubhán tilted his head in confusion.

"We're checking in with you, on your opinion of what should happen next." Dumbledore surveyed the back of the chair the boy was in, and then the chair, facing him, that Geoffrey was seated in.

"I think you ought to take your son home; your home is as safe, if not safer, then Hogwarts." Dubhán cringed at the very thought, but forced his revulsion down.

"What of Geoffrey?" Hermione asked. "We will need him later, to testify, that is certain...he has shown that he means Dubhán, at least, no harm." Dubhán snorted here, and whispered, far to softly for any over at the fireplace to hear, and, had Geoffrey not been a werewolf... 'He's a traitor.' Geoffrey clenched his hands in his lap, but ignored Dubhán otherwise.

"Bring him to me, I will situate him in one of Hogwarts private rooms. Have you alerted Lupin? He might be helpful in...transportation." Alexandra was already nodding.

"I've ask him to come already, he'll be interrupting our fire chat as soon as he gets the letter."

"Very good, very good." He nodded toward Hermione. "I'll send Ronald and another of our friends over to help with Geoffrey." To Harry and Alexandra: "As much as I feel a certain desire to beg you, like an old relative, to see the boy, I will resist the urge." Harry smiled warmly; Alexandra chuckled.

"I don't want his testimony, I don't need it." Dubhán said, and Alexandra swung around, facing a child that held a power, confidence, surety, about himself and those words. A child that faced her, that was standing. "He's a traitor."

"Hmm, I will not comment on that, Mr. Potter; I will leave you with a notion to ponder on: to who is he a traitor, and what _is_ a traitor?" Dubhán's eyes flashed at the name, and at the riddle Albus had thought it so needful to insert, but he remained passive. "I will see some of you very soon, and hopefully, the others a bit later." The fire dimmed back into its original color.

­­­­­

His eyes are a fawn brown; Geoffrey's a light blue. His eyes are drawn to Geoffrey's, who cannot hold back a slight, reverberating, growl. He frowns, silent and passive.

"You!" Geoffrey has lunged at the man, slamming him against the office wall, pressing his forearm against the man's throat. Dubhán scrambles from the chair he had reseated himself in, although he is at least five feet from the two men already, and toward the back wall. Geoffrey's eyes have gone pale amber; a level of anger Dubhán has never seen him posses in human form.

"Don't even think of getting near him!" Geoffrey growls, and hardly cares that the man has made no move to fight back. Potter, Alexandra and Hermione, have though, throwing stunning spell one after another.

"That wont work." Dubhán says from behind them, and for once that day he is not lying, he is not mocking or taunting them, he is not manipulating or predicting an outcome; he is not angry. "Something has awakened his wolf."

Potter is frantic, pulling at his hair between spells, assuring Remus he'll be okay, to hold on, yelling at Geoffrey, screaming for Remus to fight back. "Come on Remus!" He says, sending another spell to Geoffrey's back.

"We don't know each other, you've mistaken me for some-" Geoffrey's arm against his throat stops the man from speaking further.

"To hell we don't!" Geoffrey's voice is as scathing as a scratch from his wolf claws would have been. "I shouldn't have brought him here! Not if they'll allow _you_ near him." Remus has gone pale, straining to look over his attackers shoulder and to the boy he has only just noticed. "I'll _kill_ you with my bare hands!"

"Oh no you wont!" That is Potter; strengthening the potency of his spells, doubling their speed and notching up their aim. He is going for the kill, if he has too.

Behind him, Dubhán feels suddenly small, suddenly powerless. Part of him knows Geoffrey will die soon, at the hands of Voldemort, part of him wishes the man to die a less painful death, part of him wants to kill him himself, yet, welling up from its beaten place, some part of him cannot relinquish the friendship, the protection, and the care, which Geoffrey had given him. Part of him wants Geoffrey to live; and that part overwhelms him.

"_Stop it!"_ He demands, voice edging on tears. The words stop Potter, Alexandra, and Hermione, the whimpering quality to it, stops Geoffrey. He does not need words; Dubhán could have told him to kill the man while using the right body language and tones of voice, and Geoffrey would have understood him. "Stop it. Don't hurt Geoffrey, please. He...wont hurt the man..." He feels weak, unshielded, brought back into the body of a child.

"_Stupefy_!" Alexandra extended her wand and Geoffrey stiffens like a frozen log, while another spell keeps him upright. "We wont hurt him, Dubhán, but I have a feeling he can't stop himself." Dubhán felt as if she had charmed him frozen again, too, yet he knew that it was his own weakness, which now freezes him.

"Well, I do think that is my first fight with another werewolf, in human form." Dubhán regard the man oddly, as if attempting to understand Geoffrey's anger with him. Potter rushed to his aid, but Remus shooed him off. "I'm quiet unharmed. Nothing a hot cup of tea can't cure." Hermione had one floating to him before he even finished his sentence. He smiled kindly to her, before his eyes fall onto Dubhán, who, under the gaze, backed up some more.

"I think we had better introduce everyone." Alexandra said, and it was not lost to Dubhán that she had stepped in front of Remus, preventing him from following the same urge Potter had foolishly held. Dubhán was thankful, he did not want to fight a man Geoffrey had been enraged at. Despite his recent difficulties with Geoffrey, he still respected the man's instincts.

"Dubhán - did I pronounce it correctly? -," He nodded, "this is Remus Lupin. Remus, this is Dubhán. That man over there was Geoffrey, Dubhán's guard." Remus glanced at the man, confused, and visibly struggling through the avalanche of information. _Remus Lupin...Remus_, a voice whispers in his head, a voice that is time-frozen as a child: _Mooney._


End file.
